Paying the Ferryman
by maleshka
Summary: Mick Rawson and Sam Cooper meet in Iraq during the war; Sam has a job eating away at his soul and Mick has to survive an enemy ambush and time spent as a POW. Two damaged souls go on to form a strong friendship. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

_**While I much prefer the original Criminal Minds series (Hotch will always rule the CM waves!), this one did grow on me as time went on, and I particularly liked the character of Mick Rawson (probably my British pride coming into play) and his interactions with the other characters. The largely unexplained but much hinted at history between him and Sam Cooper intrigued me and I thought I'd give it a go and explore one possibility.**_

_**Obviously this story is set largely in the military world, but any special terms or acronyms have been defined at the bottom; I am also English and many of the characters will be British, so there may be the odd colloquialism – please feel free to let me know if there is anything you don't understand.**_

_**The title is in reference to the Greek Mythology surrounding the Underworld. Charon, the ferryman, carried souls across for a fee. Both Mick and Sam will struggle through a lot in this story before they can escape their pains and struggles. This is a story about a strong friendship, not slash.  
**_

_**A huge thanks to PaulaP2013, who acted as my Beta on this story despite being unfamiliar with the show itself. Your help with grammer, Americanisms and general story flow have been invaluable, so thank you once again.**_

_**This first chapter is merely setting the scene and introducing the main players.**_

* * *

Sam Cooper ducked gratefully into the tent, where the shade afforded some protection from the unrelenting desert sun. It had been many a year since he had left behind the ever increasing bureaucracy demanded by FBI brass, but for all his time in Military Intelligence he was still unused to the fierce climates the current AOs seemed to offer.

The harsh winters on the slopes of the Hindu Kush in Afghanistan and the inescapable heat of the Iraqi desert offered such vastly different landscapes, and yet the desert at night could be almost as cold as the Afghani mountain ranges, while the opium fields in summer could be as unbearably hot as the sand dunes. Both countries were host to somewhat bleak but often very beautiful landscapes, the dull, earthy browns in high contrast to the vivid green vegetation that shadowed every waterway.

Cooper spent most of his time employed in PSYOPS trying to get the local population on side with the 'Hearts and Minds' tactic, and he enjoyed mixing with the everyday people; he had learnt so much about their culture and their customs. He had come to respect them and their fortitude.

At first, he had found it difficult to contend with the more mundane complaints he'd heard when he'd returned Stateside; forced to endure a lecture on the failings of the Bush Administration (as if he needed those to be pointed out to him) or on the rising cost of living. It all seemed rather ridiculous when the country he had just returned from was suffering through all the harsh circumstances of a war they had no say in.

He'd had to force himself to remember that everything was relative, that for some people in the States the rise in the cost of living really was a problem when so many people lived below the poverty line already. The problems were different, but they existed nonetheless.

His time spent with the local population, especially the children, seemed like time well spent, and he enjoyed acting the part of friend and teacher rather than profiler.

Of course, that feeling could never last long in the Middle East.

His time in the BAU had meant that he was often brought in to help with the interrogations of high value prisoners; most of them were relatively straightforward but some were far more problematic. He'd arrived at one FOB to find the prisoner he was about to interrogate had been stripped naked and was sporting several bruises; he'd been horrified and had reported those responsible but unfortunately it would not be the only time he would come across such abuse.

Cooper hadn't thought he'd ever fully settle into a military way of life, but he found that many of the men and women were good soldiers who wanted nothing more than to perform their duty. The atrocities of Abu Ghraib had, for a brief period, tarnished all soldiers with the same brush, but most soldiers had been equally horrified at the actions of a select few and strove to be better soldiers than the public seemed to believe they could be. _These_ were the men and women Sam felt proud to work alongside.

Like many of the soldiers who had seen active service in Afghanistan, Sam preferred his time there than in Iraq. In Afghanistan, the enemy may have used guerrilla tactics and suicide bombers to tragic effect, but at least the Taliban was a clear and cohesive enemy.

In Iraq, once Saddam Hussein's Regime had fallen and it became clear that there were no Weapons of Mass Destruction the war and the reasons behind it seemed to fracture; there was no single enemy army, but instead a whole host of combative factions, each vying for control over their own little parcel of land in the turbulent Iraqi landscape.

Objectives that had once been so definitive (end the Regime and liberate the people, and find the infamous WMDs) became so blurry that it was not always clear which groups were considered enemies and which were considered, if not friendly then at least not a threat either. As if that wasn't complicated enough, there were the foreign nationals who entered the country with their _'Purpose of Visit'_ stamped clearly in their passports for all to see: _'Jihad'_.

The briefing he was attending in the tent was about one such foreign national; where he was waiting on the superior officers with his colleague, Hassan Saifa.

Saifa's parents were from Lebanon, who escaped to the USA after the Sabra and Shatila massacre in 1982 when Hassan was just a baby. He had quickly grown to love his new country but being raised in the Islamic faith, he found post 9/11 America a scary place to be; with his ethnic origin so clearly based in the Middle East, his religious beliefs were, for the first time, being held against him in the _'Land of the Free'_.

He had been in New York at the time of the attack, and like many in his community he was shocked and appalled by the massive loss of life that fateful day. He had only waited to finish his degree in Philosophy at Colombia University before applying to the military in order to appease his parents, who had both been so proud that their only surviving child had been offered a full academic scholarship to an Ivy League University. Due to his intellect and his language capabilities, quickly found himself in Military Intelligence.

The Military had been quite frank with Hassan about the fact that they were going to utilise him as a tool. His looks, his religion, his ability to speak Arabic, even the loss of his older brother in the massacre, all of it would go on to make Hassan a truly capable interrogator. The prisoners were more likely to react to his presence, positively _or_ negatively, and therefore more likely to reveal something.

Sam had instantly liked the young man, who, in spite of his inexperience and a rather incongruous idealism that he still held tightly onto, had a good head on his shoulders. His quiet, watchful nature made him a natural at interrogation and Sam felt sure his partner would go on to achieve great things in his life.

However, he still couldn't help but feel a little sad that the young man's mental prowess and abilities, his very personality were being used as intellectual weapons in the war, something that surely could only lead to a jaded man by the end of it all.

"Looks to be quite a party gathering for tonight's operation," Hassan nodded to the soldiers waiting for their briefing.

All ready and waiting in the tent were various members of Special Forces, both American and British; the Americans had a large team from the US Army Rangers, while the British had one troop from the SAS with back up from a team of Paras from 1st Battalion.

The joint operation was in response to recent intel that suggested a HVT was operating out of a small hamlet, over 40 clicks away in hostile territory. There had been an increase in insurgent activity over the past two weeks that had already resulted in the deaths of two young US Marines out on patrol and several members of a local Shia mosque. The arrival of Syrian national, Abu Maktara, in correlation with those events seemed unlikely to be mere coincidence.

They had been unable to say what particular faction the man seemed to belong to as he had already been linked with three different groups, but his hatred of all things American was clear to anyone who understood a word of Arabic.

Sam took a moment to look around the room at the soldiers waiting for the mission briefing. He had never worked with Adams before, but the man's reputation within the US Army Rangers was almost legendary among his soldiers. He'd risked his career by running a lot of interference between his men and the higher ups as one of his former CO's had been looking to make a name for himself off the shoulders of the men beneath him, calling in unnecessary danger-close fire-missions and even firing on unconfirmed targets in his eagerness to earn a shiny new medal. Adams had not only managed to shield his men from following the ridiculous example set by their Captain, but had also managed to have the man removed from the battlefield altogether.

The SAS troop were chatting happily with the Paras, a few steaming mugs settled by their feet. Sam had come across a few men from the UKSF during his time out in the Middle East, and he knew that they tended to get most excited when they had a chance to do some real _'green work'_, which they considered to be classic, behind-the-lines SAS soldiering; going into hostile territory to do what _should_ be a covert grab on a HVT was just such a mission.

He noticed one of the Paras seemed too young to be in the company of such hardened soldiers; his easy manner and bright grin seemed incongruous with their surroundings and gave him the appearance of someone who should still be in school rather than in the military.

So intent was his focus on the men around him that he missed the entrance of the officers who would be leading the briefing.

"Sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting," one of the UKSF officers, Briggs, offered as he headed to the front of the crowded tent. "Let's get down to business."

"Abu Maktara has been cropping up in our local intel for a couple of weeks now and none of it is good," an American Officer from SOCOM called Mullins continued. "We have evidence linking him to an attack on a Shia mosque in Mirsana which left twelve dead, and as I'm sure most of you are aware, we lost two Marines just the other day.

"Our most recent intel was gathered by a British recon team," Mullins gestured towards the British soldiers in the room, which Sam took to mean that some of them had been involved in the information gathering exercise. "They've managed to find a possible residence, a small compound located near a hamlet about 15 clicks from Mirsana."

"As with any intel gathered on a recon mission in hostile territory, it is not necessarily going to be one hundred per cent accurate by the time we arrive on scene," Briggs warned. "I know a few of you have been getting pretty restless waiting for some proper green work, but don't get your hopes up just yet. We hope to have Maktara in a cell for interrogation by morning, but the enemy has been pretty mobile so far and there are no guarantees he'll even be in the area by the time we're ready to step off."

"The Brits have informed us that there is a pretty heavy insurgent presence in the surrounding area and not just in the hamlet," Mullins informed the men, taking a note from a nervous looking Corporal with a frown. "Our own techs have managed to pull some satellite images that back that up; the terrain is pretty flat and very arid, but there are some inconsistencies in the satellite imagery that suggests the earth has been disturbed where previously it wasn't. It could be nothing but the Shamal kicking up the earth, but you need to be prepared for some shallow little hidey-holes hiding some nasty little surprises.

"Provided all goes to plan, we'll get Maktara back here where Sam Cooper and his colleague Hassan Saifa will help with the interrogation; hopefully we can gain some intel on his friends and see about reducing the attacks in the area."

"Now that's a brief overview, obviously," Briggs stated dryly, earning a few chuckles from the men. "We'll be going into more detail of the terrain, infil and exfil points, team positions in the AO and so on and so forth. We're going to be at this for a good part of the day, as we're hoping to be Oscar Mike at final light; so lads, you've got fifteen Mikes to get yourselves something to eat and drink and get your arses back here. Opsec is to be maintained at all times, so I trust you'll keep chatter to a minimum. See you in fifteen."

"Sam, Hassan," Mullins greeted the two men. "It isn't necessary for you to attend the rest of the meeting if you have other things to concentrate on. The details of the op aren't all that crucial to your part in this and I know you're supposed to be heading back into Al Sariya to the school, but I thought you'd like to know the rough outline, as well as the timeline."

Sam nodded. Mullins shared a similar distaste of bureaucracy, especially when it got in the way of looking after the men under his command, and the two had compared and contrasted the ridiculous demands made upon their time over an MRE and a cup of coffee many a time.

He had come to greatly respect the older man for his sensible and grounded approach to his job. There was never any glory-hunting with the man; his men and the mission always came first and the fact that he wasn't out to make a name for himself but had done so anyway was testament to the type of soldier he was. Mullins was a popular CO and one that commanded respect from _all_ allied troops and not just the American soldiers.

Briggs was another highly respected and well decorated soldier whose men in the UKSF were fiercely loyal to him. He had a much more stern countenance than his American counterpart but all that did was prove that looks were indeed misleading. The man's sense of humour was as dry as sand and as biting as the Arctic air and he could say more with a sardonic lift of one eyebrow than a Platoon could manage with the entire dictionary at their disposal.

"I appreciate the offer sir, but we are expected in Al Sariya," Cooper said, a little disappointed as he had hoped to sit in on the briefing; he enjoyed watching and listening as the plan for an operation took shape. "We shouldn't be there for too long though, certainly no more than three hours. Would it be a problem if we came and sat in on the planning after that? It's always helpful to a successful interrogation if we start off with more intelligence on our suspect."

"I agree," Mullins responded with an understanding smile; Cooper had never liked being out of the loop. "There will be a guard outside, but I'll let him know to let you in once you return."

"If there's time after the planning has all been wrapped up," Briggs started, "Then I'll introduce you to the men that took part in the recce. They'll be able to give you a brief outline of our suspect's current holding ground and such; you're free to use whatever is useful from that knowledge in the interrogation."

"Do you think you'll get much out of him?" Mullins asked.

"I don't think we can say yet, sir," Hassan replied. "If he's here for Jihad and not a national, then he could be a true cause believer and we'll likely not get anything out of him, but there is always a chance he'll slip up."

"Well let's hope so; these attacks need to end. The note that young Corporal handed me earlier had news of another attack in Mirsana, only this time it was on the school. Thankfully the explosion was weaker than the one at the mosque and so far there are only three dead: two children and a teacher," Mullins shook his head in dismay. "The civilian casualty rate for this war is unacceptable!"

"There are no guarantees," Sam began hesitantly. He didn't like the recent hike in the death toll any more than Mullins, but he also knew that an interrogation of a HVT didn't always yield results.

"I know that, Sam," Mullins nodded resignedly. "Just do the best you can, and fingers crossed, huh?"

"Of course," Sam agreed. There was never any doubt that the two men would do their utmost to gain any useful intelligence from Maktara before handing him over to the Iraqi authorities.

* * *

It turned out that Sam and Hassan had to stay in Al Sariya longer than they had originally planned, as one of the local goat herders who tended flock out in the local desert-like landscape had possible information about a militant group of Ba'ath Party hardliners who were attempting to coerce people into fighting their cause.

By the time they arrived back at the camp, the briefing had just about wrapped up and the soldiers were sorting out the final logistics for the operation. Sam could hear them discussing how much in the way of ammo and supplies they would need, and whether or not they would need any explosives, should a full-frontal assault on Maktara's compound become necessary.

"Now then," came a thickly accented voice as a young Para came forward with an easy grin and offered a hand. "I understand you want the low-down on the recce work we did a few nights back?"

He received two nods in return.

Sam looked the newcomer over; it was the soldier he had deemed too young to be in with a group of hardened Special Forces soldiers. However, the easy, relaxed manner in which he interacted with the other soldiers during the mission briefing spoke of a man who was not simply comfortable with his position, but revelled in it.

He had left a seat at the centre of table, not one on the periphery, and the rifle he had been cleaning before he noticed the two men had been placed down with great care without resorting to an almost pantomime like slowness to the action that you would expect from someone brimming with self-importance.

Sam glanced at the rifle; definitely a sniper.

He couldn't help but fall back on his profiling days and think about the LDSK's he had come across during his time with the bureau; they tended to be intelligent, disciplined and highly focused, but they were also very controlling, with huge egos and a detachment to the people they killed.

He could already guess at the young soldier's prowess with a rifle and given his position with the UKSF his intelligence, at least, wasn't in question.

He gestured for the man to continue and tried to ignore the urge to further profile him. The soldier led them to a side table after snatching a file from the large desk in the middle where the other soldiers were slowly beginning to disperse in order to get themselves sorted for the mission.

"There's not really a lot we can give as we were under orders not to get too close in case we were spotted and gave Maktara an unintentional heads up. The compound walls were high enough, and the surrounding land low enough that we were rather limited in seeing what went on _inside_ the place.

"However, there was plenty of activity _outside_! There are regular two man patrols and they have a couple of dogs around the perimeter too. One is chained up by the main entrance, but the other goes on the patrol; it's why we're all smelling so sweetly," the soldier offered an unapologetic smile.

Sam knew that for many operations that required stealth, reconnaissance work or a grab mission such as the one they were heading for, the soldiers didn't wash or shave in the few days running up to them in order to allow any chemical products to wash off their skin and make a dog's ability to track them a little more limited. A potent enough aftershave could give even the best of ghillied up snipers away to the freshest recruit of an enemy army, never mind the dogs.

"We counted about fifteen different armed men working their way around the outside, but we've no clear idea if there are more inside the compound. This building here," the young soldier pointed on a map and then at a photograph, "seems to be where most of the men come and go, so we're assuming it is acting as temporary barracks.

"There was a truck that pulled up to the compound when we were there, but it didn't go inside; crates were unloaded and carried in. I think it is pretty safe to say these," he held up a photo of thick, wooden crates with heavy Arabic script printed on the side, "are not a result of their weekly grocery shop, so we're working on the assumption that they've got a mini arsenal in there, at least."

"Did you get eyes on Maktara?" Sam asked.

The soldier held up another picture.

"He didn't seem too keen on venturing outside much, and he never went further than a few metres from the entrance, but it was enough to confirm his presence. Of course, all of this is now a few days old, but a spy plane flew overhead this morning and images confirm there's still a pretty heavy military presence there."

"Wasn't that a little risky?" Hassan asked.

"These planes tend to fly about 3 miles up, and it didn't circle the area it just did a pass over before heading on towards Basra. Maktara would probably be more suspicious if the airways were clear; we're in a war torn country and military planes passing overhead are not an uncommon sight. Besides, these are relatively new to the RAF; chances are they wouldn't have been able to differentiate between our spy plane and a C130 from that height."

"So they're prepared and he's certainly got a few men willing to serve him," Sam mused, trying to get them back on track. "What about the villagers?"

"No real interaction as far as I could tell; they all seemed pretty determined to steer clear of both the compound and the barracks. There aren't many people there; a few women, children and a couple of elderly civilians with no signs of any men."

"Lost in the fighting," Hassan mumbled.

"Probably," the soldier agreed. "A lot of the local towns and villages had men strong-armed into fighting for the Republican Guard; the consequences were usually pretty severe if they refused. Men were executed and if their families were lucky, their deaths came on pretty quick too."

Sam noticed the slight tightening of the man's voice but there were no other outward signs that he was at all bothered by what information he had just shared. Sam had seen evidence of what befell families whose patriarch had refused to pick up a gun in the name of Saddam Hussein's regime. The men were usually executed after being forced to watch the fate of their families; rape was not infrequent and a painful death was guaranteed. They acted as a good incentive for the remaining candidates, but Sam could have done without seeing what a five year old looked like after being stoned to death.

"Anyway, basically our guy, Maktara, is paranoid and very careful. He's either got a strong enough character or a large enough bank balance to keep these men guarding him. I'd go with the former, because these guys seem prepared to mow down a goat that wanders too close to the compound and that speaks to more than a paid professionalism; these guys are devoted to the man.

"They stop what they're doing for prayers, even when out on patrol; their actions, their dress, right down to their actions in Mirsana all speak to die-hard Sunni fundamentalists.

The way his men seem to react to him suggest that they fear him as much as they respect him, but they never seemed to hesitate acting on any orders that we saw. The villagers, who go out of their way to avoid him and his men, seem downright terrified of the whole lot of them. Maktara is going to be a tough nut to crack," the Para shrugged with his conclusion.

"It sounds like we've got our work cut out for us, Sam," Hassan grinned. He always liked the interrogations to be at least a little challenging.

"Thanks for sharing," Sam offered. "Don't think we caught your name, though."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that," came a rather bashful grin. "Corporal Rawson, British Army's Parachute Regiment, 1st Battalion; everyone calls me Mick," he offered a sloppy salute and a mischievous wink.

"Sam Cooper and Hassan Saifa," Sam gestured to each of them by way of introduction.

"Mick? Not a very original nickname," Hassan responded, thinking of the many colourful nicknames he had come across during his time in the military.

"Sorry?" the young sniper asked, his confusion clear.

"Yeah, you know, being Irish and all, Mick seems kind of obvious," Hassan pointed out with a shrug.

"You think I'm _Irish_?" Mick responded, amusement clearly tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"Your accent…" Saifa replied, unsure; clearly he was missing something.

"Welsh," Mick informed him with a small laugh.

"Welsh?"

"Yeah, Welsh, from Wales; Swansea if that means anything to you."

"Oh, fuck!" Hassan exclaimed. "I'm sorry if I've offended you or anything, but…"

"I'm not offended, mate, no worries," Mick interrupted and offered a friendly smile. "A few of you Yanks have got confused over this; if we don't talk like the Queen or with a heavy Cockney accent, then you guys tend to be pretty much in the dark. Then again, if you tried to get me to tell you the difference between someone from Canada and someone from the US, I probably wouldn't have a clue either."

"Fair enough," Hassan laughed, relieved. On the whole, the US/UK rivalry was little more than banter; gentle and not so gentle ribbing seemed to be a way of life for some of the soldiers stationed together. However, there were always one or two soldiers, on either side, who seemed determined to find fault with those who were _supposed_ to be their closest allies. He was glad Rawson seemed to be of the more amiable sort.

"So…Mick?" Hassan queried.

"Short for Michael," the sniper shrugged. "But I only ever got called that if I was in trouble for something; it's pretty much always been Mick."

"So no Army nicknames then?" Sam asked.

"A whole load of them," Mick grinned. "Most of them probably not fit to be repeated, some of them I have no intention of sharing and others I'll probably shoot you for using."

"Hey Annie!" came a shout from behind.

"Like that one," Mick offered with a roll of his eyes.

"Annie? Do I want to know the reason behind that one?" Sam asked, amusement threatening to overtake him.

Before he could give an answer, the soldier who'd shouted at him jumped onto Mick's back and mussed up the younger man's hair.

"Get off me, Gav, you bloody idiot!" Mick swiped his hand behind his head, swatting the other man on the side of his head.

"Is that any way to greet a friend? I'm telling you mate, you've got to stop being so bloody mardy! Can you believe this op. mate? We're getting some proper green work!"

"Birmingham?" Hassan asked Mick quietly, guessing at the newcomer's thick accent.

"Liverpool," Mick offered with a short laugh.

"Aye, we Scousers are so much better than those Brummie bastards!"

"Better not let Briggs hear you say that," Mick warned the older soldier with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

There was always a lot of banter about where people came from; whether it was about the North/South, East/West Divide, rural versus urban, the _'best'_ cities to come from, or even the countries themselves, there was always a joke on hand. Being Welsh, Mick always got more than his fair share of comments directed his way and he was always glad to hear banter that didn't involve sheep or coal-mining tenors.

"No way is Briggs a Brummie!" Gav hotly denied.

"Yeah he is; Solihul," the sniper informed his friend.

"Well there you go, then, _posh_ Birmingham," Gav shrugged, as if that explained everything.

Mick just shook his head, well used to Gav and his ways. The man was only older than him by a couple of years but he was easily the most juvenile of all the soldiers Mick served alongside.

Gavin came from the ideal nuclear family: two parents and two children, they had even had a golden Labrador growing up. His parents had both worked and while they had never had an overabundance of money, they had never lacked for the necessities either. Gav liked to play the part of the working class hero, if only to wind up his staunchly Tory father who had served in the Falklands and was a huge fan of Margaret Thatcher.

Mick had never much cared about politics, finding most politicians to be pretty much the same no matter which party they claimed to represent, but he _did_ like arguing with Gav if only to watch the older man struggle through arguments that he didn't _really_ believe in.

"So…Annie?" Sam asked Gav, curious about its origins.

"Yeah, you know, Little Orphan Annie," Gav offered as though it were obvious.

"I wouldn't fit in the red dress," Mick grumbled as he glared at the older man and Sam was sure this was a frequent argument between the two. The former profiler wondered if Mick shared Annie's orphan status or if there was some other reason for the moniker.

"Then there's Annie Oakley, too, of course," Gav gestured to Mick's sniper rifle.

"Of course," Sam nodded and directed an amused look at Mick, who responded with an eye-roll and a long-suffering sigh.

"You want to know the worst thing?" Mick asked. "He actually _tries_ to be this stupid; guy's got a degree from London's Imperial University in chemical engineering but he likes to spend his time talking like a Jerry Springer special."

"Ah Jerry," Gav nodded to himself. "Now _that_ is entertainment!"

"I'll leave you to your delusions," Mick shook his head in dismay. "I've got a shopping list I need to see to," he waved a piece of paper that contained the extra equipment necessary for the forthcoming operation. "See you again soon, Agent Cooper, Agent Saifa," he nodded before heading out the tent towards the armoury.

"You seem like good friends," Hassan said to Gav as his eyes followed Mick's exit.

He had been worried when he first joined the military whether or not his ethnic background would leave him an outsider, but on the whole, the soldiers saw the uniform before all else. He had suffered through the odd racial slur, but nothing severe and never without another soldier there to stand by his side. Now, years after joining, he was not only a part of the camaraderie but he revelled in it.

"Aye, he's a good lad, good soldier too; there's no one I'd rather have at my back," Gav nodded.

"You mind me asking?" Sam started. "Why the Army if you've got a chemical engineering degree?"

"Why not?" Gav shrugged. "I'm not really fond of school all that much; I'm not thick or anything, I just never found it the be all and end all of life, know what I mean? And don't let Mick fool you for one second, because the guy might not have even finished school but he's still the smartest guy I know; I'm not the _only_ one who plays the idiot."

"I gathered that," Sam smiled, having already guessed that Mick Rawson was not the uneducated soldier he seemed happy enough to portray.

"I've got my own crap to get together before we step off, but I'll see you on the other end of it all, _hopefully_," Gav offered a sardonic grin, before waving his farewell and heading off to gather his supplies together.

"Sometimes I find it rather scary to meet the guys behind the guns and find out just who is first on the defence line," Hassan wryly stated. "A soldier who chooses a rifle scope over a microscope brings up all sorts of questions, even without the quirks," he nodded to the departing soldier who had taken to running in a dramatic but slow motion manner towards another of his brother-in-arms.

"Yeah, but then so does an idealistic Philosophy major who decides to specialise in Military Intelligence and interrogation," Sam replied with a pointed look. "Besides, they seem capable enough, even if they do make me feel like I'm one step away from a retirement home! Come on; let's go see what experimental gloop they're serving up in the mess tent this evening."

* * *

_**And so it starts. Please let me know what you think; constructive criticism is welcomed. Thanks!**_

_**And a glossary for those that need it...  
**_

**Brass**_** – slang term usually for the upper echelons of command, often referring to the bureaucrats rather than a Front-Line man.**_

**AO – Area of Operation**_** – a military term used to denote an area where operations are being carried out; it can be as small as a village or as large as a country.**_

**PSYOPS. – Psychological Operations **_**– the **_**'Hearts and Minds'**_** tactic relied upon emotional or intellectual arguments to win over both enemy combatants and local residents to the other side, using all sorts of methods, including air-dropped propaganda leaflets.**_

**FOB – Forward Operating Base **_**– a secured military position, usually a base.**_

**Abu Ghraib**_** – a prison near Baghdad, where 17 US soldiers were accused (and 11 charged) of human rights violations and torture.**_

**Jihad**_**– Arabic, meaning **_**'struggle'**_** or **_**'to strive'**_** and while it means more than the usual translation of **_**'Holy War'**_** that is what it refers to in this context. It can also refer to a personal struggle to follow the Muslim faith as well as possible, or even striving to build a better Muslim society.**_

**Paras **_**– slang term for anyone in the **_**Parachute Regiment**_**, which is the Airborne Infantry of the British Army. The 1**__**st**__** Battalion is permanently attached to the Special Forces Support Group.**_

**HVT – High Value Target.**

**Clicks**_** – military slang, it can stand for time or for distance.**_

**Danger Close**_** – is a military term used to denote that friendly forces are in close proximity to a requested air-strike, artillery support…etc…The danger increases/decreases depending on the weapons being used and of course on actual distance.**_

**UKSF – United Kingdom Special Forces**_** – it includes both the SAS and SBS and many more to boot. Typically in the SAS, you have four men in a patrol team and four teams to a troop, each with their own specialities.**_

**SOCOM – Special Operations Command.**

**Recon – Reconnaissance**_** – military term for the gathering of intelligence, also referred to as **_**'Recce'**_** work.**_

**Shamal**_**– a wind that blows over much of Iraq and the Persian Gulf, often kicking up some pretty violent sandstorms.**_

**Infil/Exfil – Infiltration/Exfiltration**_** – drop off and pick up locations.**_

**Oscar Mike**_** – military slang for **_**'On the Move'**_**.**_

**Mikes**_** – military term, used to denote either minutes or miles.**_

**Opsec – Operational Security**_** – pretty self-explanatory, basically, keeping those who **_**need**_** to know as the only ones **_**in**_** the know.**_

**CO – Commanding Officer**_** – again, self-explanatory, although you should note that it is more an American term and that the British tend to use **_**'OC'**_** which stands for **_**'Officer in Command'**_** or **_**'Officer Commanding'**_** although **_**CO**_**is becomming more frequent**__**.**_

**LDSK – Long Distance Serial Killer.**

**Ghillie Suit**_** – is a set of thick, camouflaged clothing, designed to resemble thick foliage and to break up the silhouette of the soldier wearing it.**_

**RAF – Royal Air Force.**

**C130**_** – a military grade plane that is mostly used for transport, but can also perform gunship duties, aerial reconnaissance and even aerial refuelling.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Thanks to everyone who took the time to review and to those I couldn't respond to…**_

_**Rawson.M – thanks – good to know you're enjoying it so far. I love the Welsh accent too and find no trouble differentiating between that and the Irish one. That particular part came up because I watched episodes of CMSB on YouTube and some of the comments were about **_**'the Irish Guy'**_** which amused me, and one being about how Matt Ryan had the worst Irish accent ever heard, which cracked me up.**_

_**Seth 8627 – thanks - hope this chapter does not disappoint!**_

_**Narwhayley – thanks! Glad to hear you're enjoying the military side of the fic – was a little worried about it being too much.**_

_**A huge thanks once again to my wonderful Beta, PaulaP2013, for taking the time to check everything over for me – there would likely be too many semicolons and homeless sentences without you!**_

_**On with the story and we see things from Sam's POV.**_

* * *

It had been eight weeks since the Abu Maktara mission went off without a hitch; both Sam and Hassan had been working relentlessly trying to get something from the man.

Sometimes in interrogations the process was quick and easy; valuable information was often unintentionally revealed in between the boastful rants and the hateful diatribe that tended to spew from their overused mouths.

Other times they didn't even get a name, as a prisoner would spend their time sitting and staring at the walls, never uttering a word; the only sign of life was the occasional sneer and sporadic looks of utter contempt directed towards their captors.

Maktara didn't fit into either of those categories.

He was happy to sit in silence or he was happy to share his opinions, but he would not be tricked or goaded into revealing anything he didn't want to reveal; he was an intelligent man but was not in any way boastful about it. He had told his interrogators that he knew he had been lucky enough to receive a good education, and that because of that privilege it had been his duty to help his brothers in any way he saw fit.

Sam and Hassan would ask a question about his operation and Maktara would retaliate with a philosophical quandary and a lengthy verbal essay on the problems brought forth by the West and its need to interfere with the rest of the world.

It had been eight long weeks.

It had been five weeks since an ambush devastated a Joint Forces patrol, resulting in seven dead and three declared MIA with several men injured.

Once the lead vehicle in the convoy was taken out by a roadside bomb, RPGs took out the one at the rear; the dispersion recommended between the vehicles drummed into every driver's training since Basic had been a small mercy, ensuring no other vehicles were caught up in those initial two explosions.

In the end, it had little mattered.

The ambush had been well set up, and with the rest of the convoy locked between the two burning vehicles on a narrow road through a small town, tall apartment buildings on both sides with a natural choke point either end, the rest of the men had been vulnerable to the sharpshooting and small arms fire coming from the enemy who were hiding in an elevated position.

Five of the dead were inside the exploded vehicles, four of whom died on impact. Sam had heard the fifth man being carried into the medical tent back at base, screaming and struggling to escape the fierce pain as firm hands pressed on burnt skin that had bubbled up and peeled away, leaving dirty, oozing wounds. The smell of burnt flesh and the sounds of utter agony coming from the medical tent were still common themes in Sam's nightmares.

The sixth man's death had been quick; he'd caught a bullet in the head from a high velocity rifle, while the seventh had struggled on all the way to Baghdad, making it through eight hours of surgery before his body finally gave in.

The injuries varied from burns to gunshot wounds to internal injuries from the concussive blast. Two men had been taken by CASEVAC to a hospital in Baghdad before being transferred to a medical base in Germany for specialist treatment in burns and amputations.

Since the attack, patrols had been increased and the men and women around base were more alert than ever, almost bordering on paranoia, with morale at an all-time low.

Like many armed personnel, they had allowed themselves to be comforted by the presence of a semi-permanent FOB. The illusion of security offered by a wire fence and frequent patrols and a constant manning of the several watchtowers that guarded the perimeter led to a more relaxed approach to their immediate surroundings.

However, despite their recent losses and the reassertion of the perilous nature of their job, most soldiers' thoughts were not dwelling on their own situation, but rather with the three missing men.

Sam had been saddened to hear that Mick Rawson was one of those men.

Iraq had a long and brutal past, as any nation must with such a colourful history. While Iraq itself was a relatively young nation, the lands it was standing on were anything but with Mesopotamia's rich and diverse history as its backdrop. The land between the Tigris and the Euphrates had been home to some of the most important civilisations of their times, including the Babylonians, the Sumerians and the Assyrians. These were civilisations famed for their advances in the written word, in mathematics and in various branches of scientific knowledge.

The fertile lands in these parts were rare in the harsh surrounding landscapes and because of that, there had been a constant struggle throughout the ages to maintain a grip on the irrigated farm lands that would allow their civilisations to grow.

Wars amongst themselves were soon replaced by other civilisations that had turned their greedy eyes to the productive land. First the Persians under Cyrus the Great, before Alexander the Great decided to move further East and started a chain of invasions from every empire with grand designs, from the Parthians to the Romans.

Even in more recent history Iraq had seen a lot of conflict; from the Ottomans to the global devastation of World War One. Even earning its independence in 1932 didn't see an end to the constant upheaval.

Internal unrest continued until Saddam Hussein's iron fist caused the population to fall into line behind him, until his invasion of Iran saw yet another bloody chapter in the land's history; some were brave enough to rebel but the consequences were fatal. The eight year-long Iran-Iraq war saw over half a million dead and left behind fierce resentment, huge debt and a terrible legacy of chemical warfare.

It was a legacy that was continued merely two years later when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait.

The invasion of Kuwait saw Hussein's former allies from the Iran-Iraq War turn against the Republic; a US-led coalition force invaded, intent on securing Kuwait's sovereignty. The Gulf War lasted about seven months and estimates on the number of deaths related to the war run as high as 100,000.

The latest Gulf War's death count was always increasing, with a disturbing amount of them civilians. Many of the civilians were caught up in the suicide bombings and the frequent IED explosions, but it was the deaths from those caught in fire-fights and airstrikes that were having the greatest impact.

Resentment towards the Allied troops was steadily building, even among the communities that had previously supported the invasion. Locals were becoming less and less inclined to help the Western soldiers, the fear of reprisals and the burgeoning anger over avoidable casualties causing too many problems to overcome. The growing animosity from the civilian populace along with the experienced warriors borne of a nation well acquainted with conflict and adversity meant that any soldier unlucky enough to fall into enemy hands was in for a hellish time from all sides.

The ambush had been well set up. The original path had damaged civilian vehicles that had been caught out by an IED blocking the way and the convoy, with no room to backtrack and desperate to avoid sitting out in the open with so many tall buildings surrounding them, had turned down a narrow street between two apartment blocks.

Sam had seen pictures of the burnt out vehicles and could only imagine the atmosphere in the alley once the bullets started raining down from above onto the soldiers below who were trapped between fire and concrete.

The brave actions of Rawson, Wallcroft, Anderson and Samson on the rooftops had ensured the other soldiers' safe retreat to the awaiting Chinooks and Sam imagined it was their determination to see a successful exfiltration of the wounded that had helped lead to their capture.

Well, capture for some of them at any rate.

Joseph "Joey" Samson was a quiet but much beloved member of his team and it had been a terrible blow to his many friends who found what remained of his body on the roof. The man had met a grisly end, in close proximity to a fragmentation grenade that had torn through flesh and bone leaving a barely recognisable body to identify.

They had found Mick's sniper rifle caught on a balcony below and while on the roof above they had found more blood that suggested Rawson, and probably his spotter, were injured, there was not enough blood to make any of them think their bodies would be found in one of the ditches lining the many roads out of town.

In the three weeks that followed the Maktara incident, before the ambush, Sam had gotten to know Mick and some of his fellow soldiers a little better. Through many a shared meal in the mess tent, or a shared silence under the stars, even a quick chat in the queue to the latrine Sam had enjoyed the mischievous and sometimes acerbic manner possessed by the younger man.

Mick kept a closed mouth about his personal life and Sam couldn't ignore the profiler in him that picked up on every nuance of behaviour and every word that was left unspoken that suggested the sniper had lived through a rough start. He had never once pried, not because he hadn't been curious, but because he had picked up on Mick's tense and defensive posture when an innocent question into his past was deemed too intrusive.

Sam _did_ learn that Mick had left school at sixteen and joined the Army as soon as he could. Despite missing out on an extra two years of school as well as a university education, Mick was easily one of the brightest men he had ever come across. There were a few gaps in what some might consider _'the essentials'_ (Mick didn't know the first thing about the plot of Macbeth and he couldn't care less about any of the world religions, or the benefits of sine, cosine and tangent) but that didn't make him unintelligent.

One thing Sam noticed right from the start was that Mick was a natural born profiler, and not just because the man's long-distance assessment of Maktara had been spot-on. The younger man could be a regular Chatty Cathy when the mood struck him, talking and laughing and seemingly oblivious to all else around him, but Sam had quickly learnt otherwise.

They had been in the mess tent, Sam, Hassan, Mick, Danny Wallcroft and Gavin Eaden. Sam had first met Gavin, an exuberant soldier from Liverpool, after the briefing for the Maktara op and had quickly pegged the man as the class-clown, so to speak.

The conversation had become increasingly loud, bordering on beyond crude once Gav joined them at the table and Mick had bantered back and forth trading insults as easily as breathing, never pausing and perfectly in sync. Eventually Gav had disappeared off and Mick had looked at Danny and said to keep an eye on Gav as the guy was clearly depressed about something. Wallcroft had looked confused about the assertion but had never for one moment doubted Mick's assessment and promised to keep an eye on their fellow soldier.

Two nights later Mick and another soldier, Digger, had had to talk Gavin down from eating a bullet and in the process discovered a vicious Dear John letter from his long-time girlfriend and mother of his child. She was leaving him for another man and intended to take his child away from him; Gav still had another four months of his tour to serve before he could get home to address the problem and he had been terrified when he phoned home two days before that no one knew where his ex and their child had disappeared to, and despaired of ever seeing his little girl again.

Sam had seen soldiers crack under far less and knew that being thousands of miles from home when problems arose that they were helpless to address was a terrible situation for the typical assertive behaviour of the average soldier.

Mick had talked his friend down quickly and quietly, drawing no extra attention from anyone else around and before taking the matter further up the chain of command. He did this with a discreet professionalism and a fierce protectiveness for his fellow soldier that Sam was quite sure the Brass were not entirely appreciative of but that _he_ certainly admired. Mick helped to ensure that Gav was given compassionate leave to sort out his domestic problems before subjecting himself to a barrage of psych tests to assess his continued suitability to military life.

The man seemed to be a natural at reading someone's intentions, seemingly with very little evidence and certainly without being obvious about it at all. Sam had often come across Mick calming down some of the more volatile situations that can arise between soldiers stationed out in the middle of a desert with little of interest to do between missions. He was always calm and efficient, and sometimes blunt as hell to the point of rudeness and beyond, but he'd always been successful.

Mick's general intelligence came through in many of their frequent conversations; topics varied from the current political climate of the world, to past historical events to a wide array of literary references. He could calculate trajectory and factor in the Coriolis Effect and understand the various mechanisms of the bombs and IEDs commonly encountered in his work all seemingly with very little effort.

He spoke several languages, some fluently, and was able to engage the locals in a way that few other soldiers ever managed, instinctively knowing what topics to aim for first in an effort to put them at ease. It didn't hurt that his appearance seemed to encourage several of the older widows in the local area to take it as their personal duty to fatten up the scrawny young man.

Some of his knowledge in a particular area was broad, based on the key factors and the most pertinent of information only, other areas were very specific and so well researched that Sam could always find _something_ to talk to the younger man about, even it was something as simple as help on the latest crossword.

Sam had found an unlikely companion in Mick and knew that had they met under normal circumstances they may both have passed each other by without a second glance. However, the relative isolation of the FOB and the recent lull in Special Operations had meant that they had the time to get to know one another properly, finding kinship despite the very different upbringings, beliefs and choices in their lives.

The thought of Mick, a young man who had clearly already suffered through the hardships of life, in the hands of the enemy was a terrifying one and one Sam was helpless to do anything about. All he could do was help interrogate any prisoners who might be potential aids in locating the missing soldiers and there were no guarantees of success.

The clock was ticking and time was running out.

* * *

_**Constructive criticism welcomed and please let me know what you think.**_

_**In case you need it…**_

**MIA**_** – military term meaning **_**'Missing in Action'**_**.**_

**RPG **_**– a popular weapon, the **_**Rocket Propelled Grenade**_** speaks for itself**_**.**

**CASEVAC**_** – medical short-hand for a **_**Casualty Evacuation**_**, usually by helicopter.**_

**FOB**_** – **_**Forward Operating Base**_**.**_

_**Next up, we see what's happening to Mick.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed so far. Your kind words and encouragement are much appreciated._**

**_Huge kudos to my Beta, PaulaP2013. Her help with syntax and Americanisms has been invaluable._**

**_Now onto Mick...  
_**

* * *

When Mick awoke, he really wished he hadn't. There was not one square inch of him that did not hurt, and while his head ached even as he teetered on the brink of consciousness the pain that was pulsating from his shoulder would not let him sink back into the abyss.

He tried to open his eyes so he could assess his surroundings. He already knew from what he could remember of the ambush that he was in deep shit but he needed to know just how deep before he could make a plan of action. As he slowly managed to peel one eye open, his left refusing to cooperate for some unknown reason, panic started to set in; he had opened his right eye and everything was still dark – was he blind?

His sluggish mind and the continuous throbbing originating near his left temple indicated head trauma – was it so serious that he'd lost his vision?

It was only when he was jostled slightly that he felt a coarse fabric rub against his cheek and realised the truth, and while he was elated that he was not blind simply bagged, he could not help but worry about just how severe his head injury might be that it took him so long to recognise that fact.

He thought back to the ambush, to the IED that had ripped through the lead vehicle and to the RPG that had blocked the rest of the convoy in by taking out the rear-guard…

_The Joint Operations Taskforce soldiers poured out from their Humvees and from the Land Rovers that offered little protection in such circumstances and instead merely acted as bigger, easier targets._

_He heard the clear echoing sounds of a high-powered rifle that indicated at least one sniper, and Mick, knowing his rifles better than most, recognised that the noise did not belong to a gun anyone on the JOT would be using._

_The smoke from the burning vehicles was filling up the narrow street and helping to cover the enemy insurgents' position, while at the same time helping to mask the soldiers below. There were agitated shouts from above and Mick used them as a targeting aid, firing towards the noise._

_The smoke was choking the soldiers below but the coughs were drowned out by the crackling fire of the burning vehicles, by the small-arms fire and the loud, echoing retort of a sniper rifle, but worst of all were the screams coming from the Humvee that had been leading the convoy. Mick could make out the smell of burning flesh mixed in with the smells of burning rubber and diesel and took another few steps away from his own vehicle just in case the RPG made a reappearance._

_He wondered why it hadn't. Why, when the enemy had them surrounded and cut off, at a huge disadvantage due to the casualties already inflicted, the elevation and the smoke, why they were not being more trigger happy. _

_Had they run out of heavy ordinance? _

_Did they have limited ammo and were trying to make sure every shot counted?_

_It didn't make sense to set up such an effective ambush point and not bring along enough weaponry to do the job._

_Was this something else, then? _

_Had the Special Forces Taskforce been specifically targeted or had the ambush simply been an efficient plan pulled together in a very short space of time without the necessary tools? The very thought of being purposefully targeted sent a shiver down Mick's spine as he thought of how the insurgents came to have that data. _

_He covered the other men from his Landy as they hugged the buildings, guns aimed high. He could still hear the screams up front and hoped the soldiers closer to the burning man could help him, even if the most that they could do was to shove a dose of morphine into him and ease his pain._

_Danny Wallcroft, a man Mick had served with for over three years now, was on the radio, calling for reinforcements and giving the necessary coordinates. They would need help and need it soon, but Mick knew that their options were limited._

_An airstrike wasn't an option as it wouldn't just be Danger Close, it would be on top of the damn Taskforce!_

_A Big Bird wouldn't do much good down such a narrow little road surrounded by tall apartment buildings as any damage it could inflict upon the enemy would just as likely rain down on them. Command wouldn't want to send in a troop carrier like a Chinook or a Black Hawk when it was known that RPGs were in play and such a big aircraft would be an easy target sitting in the air as the men made an FRD to secure a landing zone. _

_Whether reinforcements were coming by land or by air, they would have to proceed with caution in order to make sure _they_ did not become targets. _

_Mick wondered if they had enough ammo to keep the insurgents at bay but he doubted it; even if the men used their ammo sparingly they were still clearly outgunned and out in the open as they were, often times suppression-fire was the safest way to move from point A to point B. They may have to rely upon enemy weapons, but they had to be able to get to them first._

_He took a quick look down the street in both directions and saw injured men being dragged to the sides by their comrades. He saw their current team leader, O'Connell, was down but clearly not out as he was spitting fire at the young Corporal who was manhandling him into a safer position; judging by the growing stain on the man's shoulder it had to hurt like hell being dragged like that, but such situations did not always allow for a delicate touch._

_Mick was closer to the Land Rover that had been acting as rear-guard and could tell that two of the men on the side of the explosion were dead, their mangled remains still grotesquely visible through the smoke and the flames. _

_Wilde and Digger, the vehicles other occupants, were up against the wall and covered in blood, both clearly injured and badly shaken; Digger's leg was a mess and Mick knew the man needed an immediate Casevac before shock and blood-loss claimed him. Wilde's arm was clearly out of action but he was shakily helping out an American soldier as he used his working hand to feed in what ammo belts were left for the 50. Cal._

_Mick knew that they needed out of the narrow road, but their options were limited. The vehicles had only just squeezed down them in the first instance and now acted as burning barriers at both ends. There were few windows overlooking the road and those that _were_ there had bars over them._

_Mick signalled to Danny; he needed cover to go back to the Landy and look for something to cut through the bars. He headed to the back-passenger door, immediately behind the driver's seat and pulled out the bolt-cutters; he didn't have anything better for the job and he only hoped that the bars were narrow enough for the tool to grip round and cut through._

_Thankfully, the bars were pretty rusty in parts and that made for easier work, and after a few minutes all the bars were removed. The windows were high and not particularly big but Mick managed to squeeze through, gear and all, before signalling to Danny that it was clear to enter._

_The room was small but soon soldiers covered the Persian rug with dirt and dust and blood. Those that were too badly injured would stay there until reinforcements arrived, with a couple of healthy soldiers guarding them._

_Danny was once again on the radio informing Command of the new situation when Mick heard a whimper and rounded the corner, gun ready only to come face to face with a terrified woman hugging her two children close. She began muttering feverishly in Arabic and Mick understood enough of the language to know she was begging for her children's lives. Mick quietly promised her that they were not here to hurt them, but he could tell that she was not convinced._

"_Rawson!" came a command from next door. Mick returned to find O'Connell propped up against a wall with the same Corporal from earlier attending to his wound. _

_He liked O'Connell; the man was with the US Rangers and he was a damn fine soldier even if a shit-scary leader at times, however, he was so full of vitriolic sentiment when it came to the Brass and the _'pencil-pushing, desk-jockey a-holes from the Pentagon'_, as O'Connell called them, that everyone under his command felt comfortable around the man, knowing that while he placed importance on rank and orders, his world vision was not so black and white that he blindly followed the DOD's instructions without first making sure that the welfare of his men would not be compromised._

_O'Connell had little patience with _any_ soldier who was out to make a name for himself, especially with officers who should know better; instead, he believed that it should always be about the mission and the man beside you and not what the REMF's back in DC thought about your latest after-action report._

"_You, Wallcroft and Anderson are to follow Samson here and take the roof," O'Connell ordered, swatting at the Corporal as he tightened the bandage around his shoulder wound. "We need to clear the RPGs from the area. Some of these boys aren't going to survive if we have to move them before we can get them medical attention. _

"_You take your rifle, Wallcroft will act as Spotter and the other two will keep you covered; this roof and the one on the other side need to be clear and we need eyes on the surrounding buildings. Word from Command is that the choppers, when they come, will land in the courtyard to the East so once the roof is clear you'll need to cover that area. Understood?"_

"_Yes, Sir!" Mick nodded and began piecing together his sniper rifle, getting it ready for immediate use before slinging it over his back and once again bringing his assault rifle to the forefront. They would likely meet resistance before they reached the rooftop and the echoing gunfire would act as a siren to the insurgents. They would have no time to waste once their presence was made known._

_Both Anderson and Samson were with the US Special Forces, both holding the rank of Sergeant; Mick had only run into them a couple of times. _

_Anderson was a complete arsehole, no doubt about it! His attitude towards any soldiers that were _not_ Special Forces was beyond deplorable as his arrogance refused to see a Regular as anything less than unnecessary and _that_ was on a _good_ day; however, he was a good soldier, an expert with explosives and entirely dependable when the shit hit the fan._

_Samson was a quiet man with deep spiritual beliefs; he obviously had trouble reconciling those ideals with his chosen profession, but he was a consummate soldier and always looked after the men on his team._

_They followed Samson out of the door and slowly made their way to the stairs visible at the end of the narrow corridor, guns ready and fingers on triggers ready for the first sight of an insurgent. There were other four-man teams behind them with orders to clear each floor as they worked their way through the building in an effort to secure their position._

_They were on the fourth floor when the first shots were fired. Anderson was on point and two shots had the insurgent down before he had even been able to raise his AK47 in their direction. Loud shouts were immediately heard from both above and below. Below, shots were being fired, suggesting that the other teams were beginning their sweep but it was the noises above that worried Mick._

_Knowing he had no choice but to walk into another potential ambush he did a quick double check on his gear as the rest of the team did the same, all too aware that they could not afford any mistakes._

_Anderson kicked open the door, knowing there was no more need for subtlety; he immediately moved to what little cover the concrete door frame supplied as the insurgents on the roof opened fire._

_Samson tossed out a frag grenade, right into an area where several of the enemy had bunched up behind the inadequate cover available on the roof. There were a few shouts of alarm but the explosion was almost immediate and the cries of pain and the immediate distraction it created gave them their window._

_Mick was third out of the door, rifle at the ready, and immediately opened fire with short, sharp bursts in an effort to conserve ammo. While he left the men on their rooftop to the others, he and Danny got to work on the building on the other side of the street; sniper rifle up and steady, he shot every target Danny spotted with a single head-shot, breaking from normal protocol of double-tapping them in yet another effort to conserve ammo._

_There were fewer men on the roof than expected and that was a welcome relief but it also raised more than a few concerns. Though the smoke had obscured much of their view, there were still occasions when they had had a good enough view to make out the number of faces and weapons pointed their way from the rooftops, and the number was significantly more than they had taken out._

"_The rooftops are all fucking connected," Anderson swore, furious at the idea that their targets had disappeared into any one of the buildings along the row of apartment blocks that ran along the main road, the small side road that the ambush had taken place on merely splitting up a long row of buildings. _

_The apartment block on the opposite side was now empty on the roof and Mick could not make out anymore hostiles in the windows; he knew they had not killed even half of the number they had been up against and that meant that the surrounding area was now potentially crawling with insurgents looking to do them harm._

_A crackle on the radio deemed the interior of their particular apartment building secure and Wallcroft reported back their findings on the interconnected rooftops and the dilemmas that arose from it. The immediate response was that they should stay on the roof, rifles in hand and cover the men as they moved to the choppers that were inbound._

_The teams that had been securing their building were to secure the LZ at ground level and make sure it was safe for the choppers to make a relatively safe landing, ready to haul their injured comrades the moment the Birds touched the ground. There were so many sporting injuries, some more serious than others, that every set of available hands was going to be needed to transport them to safety._

_Once they received the landing coordinates, Mick set up his position with Danny on hand acting as spotter, and Anderson and Samson watching their six. None of them were comfortable with their position, all feeling too exposed by the many points of ingress and egress along the various rooftops. However, they had a job to do and there were too many men depending upon them below, many not in a fit state to defend themselves._

_The distant, echoing _'thump, thump'_ of the rotors was a welcome sound that had everyone breathing a sigh of relief. Men began pouring out of the building towards the East, securing the LZ while those with injuries stayed behind, waiting for the all clear._

_Mick and Danny were scouring the land surrounding the LZ trying to find any potential threats; any that _were_ spotted were quickly felled by a shot to the head, fired with expert precision and no hesitation on Mick's part._

_While he and Danny were busy with the ground below them to the East, Anderson and Samson were nervously scanning the rooftops and the doors that potentially hid any threats. Ideally, they would have more men up there, actively securing the whole area, but they simply didn't have the manpower with so many out of action and ammo worryingly low._

_A doorway opened further down and the quick retort of Samson's assault rifle echoed off the surrounding buildings as two insurgents fell down. The answering Arabic cries seemingly erupted from all around them but Mick had to ignore it all as he concentrated on taking out a moving target, complete with an RPG strapped to his back, trusting Anderson and Samson to have his and Danny's backs._

_He couldn't remember what happened after firing his weapon and hearing Danny's quiet mutter of 'kill confirmed', except for a blinding pain and a blanket of darkness._

From his bound hands and the bag over his head acting as a huge blindfold, he knew that he had not made it to the chopper and that in the chaos that had been unleashed once the helicopters presence was known by the insurgents, he and possibly some of his fellow soldiers had wound up in the enemy's hands.

He half hoped Wallcroft, Samson and even that right royal prick, Anderson were with him because he couldn't bear to think about the alternative…that they hadn't made it off the rooftop at all. Another part of him, a part that his various years in military service had not quite managed to _completely_ mangle, a part that deep down knew better hoped against hope that they had somehow escaped altogether, that they were not in the same vehicle being led to the same place, undoubtedly about to endure the same hell.

He knew that the Geneva Convention had not held much stock with Saddam Hussein and his government, and he sure as hell couldn't see it being any different with the insurgents that were battling over the remains of the Regime. He'd already heard over the news that someone had declared that the teachings of Islam and not the Geneva Convention should serve as the nation's guidelines in their treatment of coalition POW's.*

Name, rank, serial number and date of birth, the Big Four, were not going to cut it and he'd been involved in the rescue of enough POW's to know that torture wasn't just common, but was seemingly carried out by rote.

He'd had training for it, of course, but he also knew from talking with those who had suffered through it that nothing could ever prepare you for some of things that were thought up by cruel and sadistic guards.

Mick's mind, while still tempered by his aches and pains and the ever-growing desire to simply embrace the darkness clawing at the sides of his vision, was running at a mile a minute trying to remember exactly what his E&E and his TQ training had taught him about the particular situation he found himself in.

The biggest thing, he knew, was that time was everything. Not only was tracking the days important from a psychological point of view, but it could also have a very real affect in a much more physical sense.

Being able to discern guards' rotas, the day to day running of the prison, and the ability to distinguish events from one day to the next could make all the difference between a successful escape and a suicidal attempt.

It was also important in regards to his welfare; knowing when he had last had food and water, being able to give a good estimate between _'sessions'_ with his interrogators and if it came to chemical torture, if they started shooting him up with god knows what kind of drugs, he would need to try to hang onto a sense of time in order to estimate how long the side-effects may last.

Another thing his training had clearly emphasised was that the best tactic was to become the _'grey man'_. It was a difficult role to play, appeasing his captors without revealing anything, taking care not to rile them up or give them hope for a successful end to their interrogations.

The textbook answer of _'I'm sorry but I cannot answer that question'_ invited a lot of pain from frustrated interrogators who were eager to earn the credit of _'breaking'_ their prisoner. To swallow your pride and allow their taunting to go unanswered cost a lot in morale but the body needed to be as whole and as healthy as the situation permitted if escape was ever going to be an option.

Defiance was a regular showing in the movies, with the hero bravely ignoring the violent threats tossed his way, spitting in the face of the enemy and keeping up a non-stop line of witty insults as though he hadn't a care in the world; in reality that approach was likely to see you dead inside the first hour.

It was a fine line to walk, between defiance and submission, and Mick wasn't sure he could do it well enough to see through to the end of the day; he'd lived through entirely too much shit in his life to start pandering to some enemy OC with delusions of grandeur and a penchant for inflicting pain.

Another important survival factor to remember was to take advantage of any and every opportunity to eat, drink and rest as maintaining strength was the only way that escape was possible; you were never going to get very far, even if your escape was timed to perfection, if your body gave up the ghost due to dehydration, malnutrition and exhaustion.

Mick remembered all those things and knew that while his timing might already be a little off due to his unintended siesta, it should be easy enough to pick up so long as he didn't spend the rest of his time blindfolded.

Unfortunately, even though all those important pieces of information were passing through his mind, along with so _so_ much more, one thing his instructor had taught him seemed to shout its way through him: the longer they have you, the harder it is to escape.

* * *

_**Please let me know if you spot any mistakes and if you need it…**_

**IED**_** – **_**Improvised Explosive Device**_**, a well-disguised bomb hidden, usually with a small blast radius but oftentimes quite powerful despite it.**_

**RPG**_**– **_**Rocket Propelled Grenade****.**

**Danger Close**** – **_**a term used when calling in artillery/airstrikes that denotes friendly troops are within 600 metres of the point of impact. The distance increases/decreases depending on the rounds being used.**_

**Big Bird**** – **_**nickname for an attack helicopter, such as the **_**Apache****, ****Cobra**_**or **_**Viper**_**helicopters, armed with a chain gun and several sets of missiles. **_

**Chinook**** – **_**a huge tandem rotor helicopter (two sets of rotors, front and back) that is used mainly for carrying troops and supplies.**_

**Black Hawk**** – **_**a multi-purpose helicopter that is largely used for moving troops and supplies, or for **_**Casevac**_** purposes.**_

**FRD**_** – **_**Fast Rope Descent**_**, basically abseiling down a rope, often from a helicopter.**_

**Suppression-fire**_** – When short, sharp bursts are fired to keep the enemy pinned while moving position or covering to allow someone else to do the same, also called **_**'Cover-fire.'**

**Casevac**** – ****Casualty Evacuation****.**

**50. Cal.**** – ****50 Calibre**** – **_**a heavy-duty, very powerful gun.**_

**DOD**_** – The US **_**Department of Defence**_**, in the UK we have the **_**MOD**_**or the**_**Ministry of Defence**_**.**_

**REMF**** – ****Rear Echelon Motherfucker**_** – a not so very politically correct term used to describe the men and women who do not work on the front lines.**_

**AK47**** – ****Avtomat Kalashnikova**_** – an infamous assault rifle developed in the former USSR. Due to its easy use, durability (it can survive just about anything!) and low production costs it is **_**the**_** most popular assault rifle in the world since its initial introduction to the world in 1947.**_

**LZ**** – ****Landing Zone****.**

**POW**** – ****Prisoner of War****.**

**E&E/TQ**** – ****Escape and Evasion/Tactical Questioning**** – **_**the US equivalent is **_**SERE Training****, **_**or **_**Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape. ****E&E **_**speaks for itself, the **_**TQ**_**is all about the ability to resist interrogation as well as how to carry one out.**_

**The Big Four**** – **_**the only pieces of information that, under the Geneva Convention, the enemy is allowed to ask for: name, rank, serial number and date of birth.**_

**OC**** – ****Officer Commanding/in Command**_** is the British term for what Americans refer to as **_**CO**_** or **_**Commanding Officer****.**

_*** This was actually said by Iraq's former Foreign Minister, Naji Sabri.**_

_**Next up, we see more of Mick's ordeal.**_


End file.
